


Babydoll

by atiredonnie



Category: Dangan Ronpa: Trigger Happy Havoc
Genre: F/M, Gen, Introspection time baby, Underage cause Touko daydreams bout doin the do, it be like that sometimes, tfw when ur split personality possesses ur doll
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-08-09 05:12:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16443569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atiredonnie/pseuds/atiredonnie
Summary: Alternatively titled: Touko Faints Like A Little BitchAlternatively titled: Mother





	Babydoll

**Author's Note:**

> notes

Can you spot all the terms, kids? Special kiddos who find ALL 10 get a “Babydoll” of their own! 

WORD BANK  
Fire   
Ire  
Seed  
Paper   
Cranes   
Steam  
Die  
Whore   
Dripping   
Babydoll 

You walk home and the steam floats fragrant around your face. You close your eyes, and watch yourself die beneath your eyelids. 

You think a lot about paper. Burning paper, shreds of paper, ink smeared paper and seed-heavy paper, rotten with pulp and swollen with earth. You fold a million paper cranes in your mind and you push them under the water, fingers pressed against flimsy throats, strangling slowly even when you don’t need to. 

It doesn’t bring you any joy, though. Or so you tell yourself, because you already already already already cut out the part of you that wants to hurt pretty pretty boys like that, lovely specimens ceramic and delicate but gooshy, very gooshy, cut it out like a tumor in your room, facing the fire, eyes closed sweat and whimpering and pretending pretending pretending you aren’t changing, but just growing up. The swollen feeling in your chest is just your breasts growing, sprouting, earth, wind, ill and ire, not a monster YOU monster clawing itself out of your rib cage, chewing up all of YOUR gooshy bits, the little ones that you have in-between bits of jagged bones. Your mouth quivers, lips raw, from all of your practice kissing, chafing against the couch cushions, teeth gnawing at the seams, not from a heavy parasite cracking open your gritted teeth, forcing out a smile to make room for tongue after tongue after tongue. 

You are just tired, and horny, and a little bit hungry. You are a good person, if gross and disgusting and criminally putrid, and all the bad of you is somewhere else. You will not touch her. 

Blood froths and bubbles in the pit of your guts and the stomach acid climbs ever higher, delicate, spiderweb, fire and ire and fire fire fire.

And earth. 

You walk this earth. 

The door swings shut and you fall, an arc, a pretty crescent and you can just imagine arms catching you and even if they don’t that’s okay, you don’t mind being dumped on the ground too. The ache is always there. 

You bury yourself in a vulnerable softness, seeding yourself into cold metal. Hands scrape and bathe in the warmth. 

Later, you take a bath. You feel like drowning in your own filth, but then decide you’d rather die pretty and glossy and fair, luminous and waning with tragedy, into tragedy. You’ve never, not once given someone what they wanted willfully, even when doing so could catch their favor. You have always been ornery, so plain, so ugly and ordinary, and you have always bitten like a cat trapped, and then you meet a boy. 

You’ve met them before. Some of them earned your contempt, others, your ire and fire, most, your loathing, and a select few, your obsessive and all-consuming love. But even then, you shriek like a deflating balloon while talking to them. But this boy, this babydoll, screeches before you even get the chance. 

It’s a ratty, tattered, rat-a-tat thing and something bizarrely similar to mirth bulges in your esophagus. What the fuck? What the fuck were they thinking? You kill yourself and a thousand paper cranes in your mind, but that whore’s gift won’t leave you. It’s supposed to make you maternal. But you already are. You hate kids, but who cares? You’d never be able to hate your own spawn. You live on unsure ground when it comes to everything else but that, at least, you’re sure of. 

Of course, you have nightmares about murdering your own children and eating them alive as printers chug in time with jaunty background music, because of course. Because why not. 

Smiling is such a disease, but you smile at the babydoll that night. An affectionate smile, warm and motherly and whatever. It’s hardly breastfeeding, but mortification rises to your face anyways like a smack to the cheek. You must look so stupid, crooked teeth protruding from a gaping, flaking mouth, glasses slipping from the bridge of your nose like you’ve slathered yourself in listerine. You fling yourself into the bed and seed into sleep again. 

You dream, but faintly. Like watching a television, but that television is in black-and-white and also on fire and you’re running around screaming too much to really get a good look. Birds, and lots and lots of heavy paper. A sword forged from your pornography. You spot a lovingly described penis and try not to cry. From joy. 

You wake and the babydoll drips. So do you. It rained, and you left your window open. Fragrance drifts from the over-saturated sky. You hyperfixate on the rainbows, and before you know it your arms are full of babydoll, babydoll, babydoll. 

You scream and drop it. Wretched thing. You wonder if it reminds your mothers, Whore and Raisin Bran, of you. It seems to insult its mother figures enough. 

You giggle. Or something does, anyways, and it might be the babydoll but you may just be projecting. The babydoll has a tongue. Did it have a tongue before?

Yes, it did. Pink and little and leathery plush. It’s red now. You quiver and pick at the film over it’s big blue eyes, a hazy, out-of-focus stare. The eyelashes go next. 

When you yourself come back into focus, still dripping, you’ve lobotomized the babydoll. 

You need to write. Screw the babydoll. 

You write about a sudden awakening in the midst of a tropical storm, and making out in the midst of a tropical storm. It’s barely dripping. You are the tropical storm. 

Ooh, good line. 

You breath in smoke. It’s not really there, but you hack up mucus and slobber anyways, canine, unladylike jaw forced apart by the snarls of your demented wheezings. You think you started out laughing, but now everything is filling up quickly, like a basin full of bullshit. 

You think you fall into a temporary coma. More cranes. More storms. More dripping. More cuts. More steam. More ire. More seed. More babydoll. 

You rise again. Everything is cherry red. You faint. You’re starting to get tired of unconsciousness. 

You wake one more time, and feel strangely sated. An uncomfortable tint of arousal coloring your past week’s faded, and the bones underneath your featherlike skin are warm. You breathe in and out, and, in a shocking display of confidence for your miserable self, you reach out and press the babydoll to your withered breast, chin pressed on a bald head. Like a crane. Like paper. Even if you only get one glowing day, you’re happy. All of your rage’s leaked out of you, and maybe your death can be a happy thing after all. 

Just one glowing day. 

Everything’s gonna be okay. Steam floats, and birds sing from the window. Chrysanthemums grow beneath the sill. Salt on your tongue. 

Nestled against the nape of your neck like a faberge egg, the partially-eviscerated, partially-eviscerating babydoll winks.


End file.
